Title: Sick Leave
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: G
Length: 832 words
Pairing: Sherlock/John (although can be read as platonic)
Content notes: none
Summary: John doesn't feel well.



A hacking cough roused Sherlock from his contemplation of the algae sample collected on his petri dish. “Honestly, John, if you must go to that dull job of yours, could you at least do so quietly,” Sherlock said, hunching over his microscope. “I’m trying to do something important.” The nominally witty yet ultimately amusing rejoinder he expected didn’t come and Sherlock sat up, turning in his chair to look into the living room. John was sitting in his chair, like usual; unlike usual, he was slumped forward, elbows to knees, socks dangling from one hand.

Getting up, Sherlock walked over and looked down at him. “John?”

John jerked, looking up at Sherlock. His eyes were bloodshot, his face flushed. “What?” he bit out, his voice rough.

“You’re ill.”

John snorted. “Well spotted, that.” He reached down and started sliding a sock on his foot and Sherlock suddenly realized he was dressed. Sloppily, his hair still mussed from sleep and his clothing frumpled, but dressed nonetheless.

“While it would be amusing and somewhat ironic for people to get sicker due to visiting the good doctor, you can’t go to work in this condition.”

“I bloody well can,” John said, casting a watery glare up at Sherlock.

“That’s rather foolhardy of you,” Sherlock said.

“Foolhardy?” John leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “Foolhardy?! You’ve got to be joking.”

Sherlock tilted his head. “You’re angry with me. Why?”

“Why?!” John chuckled but it held no mirth. “Why? I’m sick as a bloody dog, Sherlock, and who’s fault do you think that is?”

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back, eyebrow raising. “I’m assuming by your tone that you believe it to be mine, however I fail to see your reasoning.”

“Sherlock. You dragged me out in the middle of the night, in the pouring rain, over a lead that ended up being absolutely nothing!”

Sherlock frowned. “You’re a grown man, John, how did I make you do anything at all?”

“Please, you-” John paused as a cough overtook him and he doubled over, mouth covering his mouth as he struggled to clear his throat. Rubbing his mouth, he leaned back again. “You would have pouted around here for days if I hadn’t gone with you.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock said, eyes narrowing.

“I’m not the absurd one.” John got to his feet and immediately stumbled. Sherlock put a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

“You’re in no condition to go to work and you know it,” Sherlock said, pushing John towards the stairs that led up to his bedroom. “Back to bed!”

“But Sherlock-” Although John was strong and compact, his struggles were weak and Sherlock easily herded him up the stairs.

“Now get back into bed or I’ll...what did you say? Pout for days?” Sherlock tilted his head, a smirk on his mouth.

John shook his head but smiled almost despite himself. “Just like a bloody jilted girlfriend,” he said, sitting on his bed and unbuttoning his shirt. “Alright, alright. I’m getting into bed.”

“Good.” Sherlock paused. “What do I do now?”

“What?”

Sherlock held himself still, trying to hide the fact that he felt rather helpless in this situation. “What should I be doing for you? I’m assuming there’s something to be done to...fix you.”

John chuckled, rusty and raw, before blinking. “Oh, you’re...haven’t you ever been sick before?”

“Of course not John, do be serious here.”

“Hmmm.” John nodded absently. “How about a bit of tea then?”

---

Once John was tucked in, a steaming cup of tea sitting on his nightstand - courtesy of Mrs. Hudson, who apparently had some kind of sixth sense about these sorts of things - Sherlock stood at the foot of John’s bed.

“Sherlock, honestly, I’m just going to…” Hacking coughs overtook his words for a moment, before John said, in a strained voice, “I’m just going to go to sleep, alright? There’s no reason for you to stay in here. Go back to your algae.”

The algae. Sherlock had completely forgotten about it. Turning his body towards the door, Sherlock frowned, eyes darting back and forth as he thought about the case. It seemed unlikely that anything would change in the case for the next few days; surely John would be fully recovered by then? Sherlock turned back to John but paused when he realized he’d fallen asleep.

Sherlock came forward and pressed a hand against John’s forehead. John was hot, sweat beading at his temples, but his face was smooth, absent of torment. Sherlock swept his hand through John’s short hair.

“Jilted girlfriend, hmm? How would you know what that’s like? When have you ever denied me anything?”

John stirred, tilted his face against Sherlock’s hand. “Smug prick,” he muttered.

Sherlock gazed at him with a smile curling on his lips, hopelessly fond. “Feel better soon, John. How am I to save London without you?” With one last stroke against John’s overly heated cheek, Sherlock swept out of the room.